


The Ghost and the Concrete Cage

by Masu_Trout



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: F/F, Ghosts, Lucrecia Appreciation Week, Lucrecia Being Creepy, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 09:42:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4386965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masu_Trout/pseuds/Masu_Trout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The ghost is standing in the corner of the room, watching Ifalna and Aerith with a raw, broken expression on her face. One bloodstained hand clutches at her coat.</i>
</p>
<p>Ifalna and Aerith's escape attempt gets a bit of help from an unexpected source.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ghost and the Concrete Cage

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt _Final Fantasy VII, Lucrecia/Ifalna, If only I had known you when you lived..._ on fic_promptly.

The ghost in the hallway is watching Ifalna once again. Her labcoat is smeared with blood and mako, and gapes open where a button is missing. Her stringy hair is falling out of her ponytail, her tie is hopelessly rumpled, and faint purple bruises decorate her neck and arms. She stares, unblinking, with dark brown eyes.

Her appearance has been the one constant in Ifalna's life since she was thrust into Shinra's labs. She wishes she could say she was used to it by now, but even after so many years the woman still frightens her. The wrongness in her very being is impossible to ignore; the Planet itself recoils from her existence, and so Ifalna cannot help but do the same. 

“Momma,” Aerith asks quietly, “What are you looking at?”

“Ah.” Ifalna startles and looks down at her daughter. Aerith is not yet old enough to see the Lifestream's spirits. Ifalna is glad for it. “Nothing, my dear, I'm sorry. Keep packing, okay?”

Aerith nods solemnly, green eyes wide with fear and excitement, and hands her a pair of socks. 

Such a bright girl, Ifalna thinks fondly. She's going to be a wonderful woman someday, no matter what Ifalna has to sacrifice for that to happen. 

When she'd first become pregnant, Ifalna had dared to hope; she'd thought perhaps the child of a human and an Ancient would be of no interest to the Planet. 

Those dreams had been dashed when Aerith slid from her womb, squalling, and the Planet had shivered in time with her cries. Her daughter would have no chance at a normal life.

There's a difference, though, between an abnormal life and a life like _this_ ; a concrete bunker, filled with Turks and the stench of misery, is no place for a child. It might have been bearable had Augustine still lived–there'd been meaning in research, then, and softness, and a hope that his studies might improve the lives of those who came after her. 

Ever since–her hands tremble, and she shoves a pair of underwear into her pack with a little more force than necessary–ever since Hojo _found_ Augustine laying in a pool of blood, hole in his stomach and grimace on his face, no witnesses no evidence to report tragic accident so sorry (and Hojo had looked so _smug_ when he gave the news)... 

Now, all she has are the hints of him; a room he once described to her, an old report with his name signed in pen, a lab technician who remembers working under him and might be persuaded to share a few stories.

She'd known better to say what she'd seen, that she'd watched Augustine bleed out and begged to be allowed to hold him as he died. 

It is too much now. She has borne this hell for seven years. She has grieved and she has endured and she has wasted her time waiting for a chance to escape. But this is no longer a place she can bear. 

The ghost is still watching. The packs are almost done. Aerith is fairly bouncing with exhilaration.

It is time to go.

Ifalna sneaks a look at the ghost out of the side of her eye. “Honestly,” she murmurs. “Can't you make yourself useful instead of just standing there staring?”

She doesn't expect a response–the woman has never answered her before–but to Ifalna's surprise she steps back and disappears through a wall.

Well, that's fine by her. The less eyes on them, the more comfortable she'll feel.

They finish packing quickly. Everything the they'll be taking fits into two small packs. It saddens Ifalna to see just how few possessions her daughter has. Once they are away from this place, she is going to fill Aerith's room with flowers and books and toys and everything else a little girl should have.

Ifalna takes a deep breath and grabs Aerith's hand. “Are you ready?”

Aerith smiles up at her. “Of course!”

\---

The first part of the journey is simply making it out of Nibelheim Manor. It will be both the easiest and most difficult part of their escape. One one hand, there is no running yet–they will not be chased by Turks or hounds or machines. It's not so different from the many walks Ifalna has taken around the compound before. 

On the other hand, though, acting normal right now is almost impossible. Every step Ifalna takes feels like it will be her last. When a low-ranking Turk greets her in the hallway, she nearly jumps of out of her skin. 

She's lucky–the man is someone she'd talked with only once before. Anyone she knows well will see through her right away.

She holds Aerith as she climbs the rickety stairs leading to the Manor's old living quarters. Everything here is covered in dust, a tribute to a family long-dead. 

She sets Aerith down on the wood floors. They've passed through these rooms many times before, though never without a Turk guard. They walk carefully through the bedroom, stepping around each squeaky board. Ifalna clasps Aerith's hand tightly as they move.

As Ifalna peers around the doorway, the ghost appears. Ifalna startles at the sight of a pale, gaunt face suddenly only inches from her own and very nearly screams as she jumps frantically backwards. 

_”You-”_ she hisses, “What?” Her heart is beating wildly. The ghost has shown up in odd places before, but never like this. Is she trying to stop them from leaving?

The ghost says nothing. Instead, she _grabs Ifalna's wrist_ with cold, glassy hands.

The shock is too much, too sudden; Ifalna only gapes at the evidence of the connection between them as the ghost pulls her away from the hallway and back into the bedroom.

This isn't supposed to be possible. Human ghosts lack the strength of spirit to affect the physical world–even the most powerful among them can do little more rattle windows and slam doors. To be able to _touch_... it's unheard of. Only the spirits of the Cetra had such power, and they have long since melded with the will of the Planet.

The ghost drags her backwards, and Aerith is pulled along. She pushes them into the corner of the room and slams Ifalna against the wardrobe door. Ifalna hisses in pain as her shoulder strikes the wood, and lashes out. The blow connects, somehow, but the ghost doesn't seem to feel it. She only frowns and holds one pale finger up to her lips.

Ifalna frowns, confused. What..?

“Mama,” Aerith says urgently. “Do you hear something?” 

Ifalna freezes. Sure enough, there's voices coming from down the hall. She can recognize the louder of the two immediately: _Hojo_. His nasally drawl is impossible to mistake.

Ifalna sucks in a quick, horrified breath. There's nowhere to run: forward will take her towards her enemy and her death. Backward will leave them trapped on the stairs, exposed and terrified and with no excuse that Hojo will believe. 

But, Ifalna realizes suddenly, there is somewhere to hide. 

“Come over here, darling,” she says, wrenching the wardrobe door open. It squeaks softly as the old hinges swing once more. Inside is even dirtier than the rest of the room, but spacious and empty except for a few pieces of moth-eaten clothes. “Be very quiet, okay?” She lifts Aerith up and sets her in the wardrobe, then clambers in after her. 

She pulls it shut behind them not a second too soon; through the slight crack where old wood no longer meets, she can see Hojo and one of minions enter the room. Hojo looks animated and angry, while the young woman with him looks like she'd enjoy nothing more than to spontaneously sink through the floor.

Joke's on her, Ifalna thinks with grim humor. Hojo would definitely dissect any employee who manifested an ability like that.

She holds her breath as Hojo and the woman walk through the room. Aerith is shaking, and she can feel her daughter's tiny hands clench tight handfuls of her skirt. Surely, Ifalna knows, they have done something wrong. Hojo is a brilliant man. He will notice the disturbance in the dust patterns, or catch a glimpse of her skirts through the gap, or hear her panicked heart beating from behind the wardrobe door.

But her husband's murderer walks past her without pause and disappears into the bowels of the mansion. 

She stays frozen long after he passes them, until his voice recedes down the stairs. Only when the heavy stone door slams shut behind him does she start to breath again.

She forces the wardrobe door open with a _pop_ and stumbles out. Aerith follows quickly, still clutching at her skirts. Ifalna can see tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.

“Oh, Aerith,” she breathes, and pulls her daughter into a crushing hug. It seems hard to believe that they are still alive–the specter of Hojo, stained red with Augustine’s blood, looms large in her mind. 

He'll never touch Aerith again, she thinks fiercely. No matter what she has to do.

The ghost is standing in the corner of the room, watching Ifalna and Aerith with a raw, broken expression on her face. One bloodstained hand clutches at her coat.

“Mama.” Aerith's eyes follow the direction of Ifalna's stare. “Is there someone there?” 

“There is,” she says quietly. No point in hiding it now. “A woman. She looks very sad.”

“She saved us, didn't she?”

“Yes.” Ifalna swallows, thinking about what might have happened had the ghost not been there. “She did.”

Aerith squirms in her grip until Ifalna sets her back down. As soon as her feet hit the floor she dashes towards the corner the ghost is standing in. She bows towards the ghost–well, about two feet to the left of her, actually, but it's a pretty good estimate–and smiles brightly. “Thank you very much, miss!”

“Thank you,” Ifalna echoes. “We owe you our lives.”

The ghost presses a hand against her mouth. She looks grateful or stricken, Ifalna can't quite tell. 

She beckons them with one pale hand; Ifalna and Aerith follow her through the hall, down the stairs and across the foyer. This part of the mansion stands empty. The dust is so thick it feels like a carpet against her feet.

Here, the ghost stops, and beckons towards the Manor's door. It is the first time Ifalna has ever seen it–she'd not been conscious when they brought her here, and during her captivity she has never been allowed close to the outside world. Perhaps Hojo feared what an Ancient might be capable of.

Ifalna turns once more to the ghost. “Perhaps...” she says cautiously, “You might be willing to come with us? It can't be pleasant to linger here.” 

It's a huge risk, but a calculated one. Despite the strange familiarity, Ifalna doesn't know who or what this spirit is. But she's willing to help them, and obviously capable of great feats–it's the sort of power that could be very useful against Shinra's trackers.

But the ghost shakes her head emphatically. She points back towards the lab, motioning a symbol Ifalna can't understand. The ghost looks rather distressed; she tries the sign once, twice more, opens her mouth, shuts it, opens it again... and speaks.

“I... can't. I need-” 

Her voice sounds distant and static, like it's being tuned through an old television. Her words cut in and out, with no pattern Ifalna can interpret. And yet, it's undeniably _speech_. 

“There... I need to- below. Mine.” The ghost bites her lip in frustration. 

“You're looking for something?” 

“Someone.”

“You...” Ifalna pauses. Suddenly an old memory comes to her: Augustine, holding a photo in his hands as he sat next to her. A portrait from his time at Shinra, something he'd taken with him when he left. He'd pointed to each of his former colleagues, naming them and explaining a little of what they worked on. 

“You're Professor Hojo's wife, aren't you? Doctor Lucrecia Crescent?”

The ghost–Lucrecia–grimaces and nods.

“Is he the someone you're looking for?”

Lucrecia shakes her head vehemently. _Absolutely not._

But who, then? The way Gast described it, there was little loyalty between scientists within Shinra. The bond between husband and wife she can understand–though why anyone would chose to marry _Hojo_ in the first place was a mystery of its own–but for her to be looking for someone other than him...

Perhaps the confusion is showing on her face, because Lucrecia frowns. She shakes her head firmly. “Don't ask.” Her gaze flickers between Ifalna and Aerith, and she presses her hands against the bruises on her arms in a nervous gesture. “I don't... want.” 

She struggles with the sentence, shaping each word deliberately. “Don't want to talk–to _you_. About it.”

It's an odd statement–why should she be worse to talk to than anyone else? Or is it just that Ifalna is the only one she _could_ talk to anymore?–but it doesn't feel right to question Lucrecia when she's both unwilling to talk and barely able to speak.

“Mom,” Aerith says quietly. “We should hurry.”

“Yes.” Aerith is right. They have precious little time. She never was good at letting go of a mystery, and it's gotten her in trouble before.

Ifalna takes a breath. Before she can second-guess herself, she takes two steps back into the foyer and presses herself against Lucrecia. The woman's form is strange; it's almost too present. She feels like she's made from marble, not skin or wisps of energy. And yet there is something unmistakeably human about her.

“Thank you again.” 

She doesn't know what else to say; the two of them are nothing more than strangers. She doesn't know what Lucrecia Crescent did in life to leave this bloodstained specter behind, or why her ghost lingers here. But she saved them both, and for that she deserves more gratitude than Ifalna can give.

Quickly, Ifalna stretches onto her tiptoes. She brushes a soft kiss against Lucrecia's forehead, tasting salt and iron, then one on each cheek. Finally, she presses her lips against the ghost's for a brief moment, feeling the strange coolness of her mouth, trying to leave a message without words. Lucrecia blinks, looking confused.

“May you find what you seek,” Ifalna says, “and may it be what you hoped for when you began looking.”

It's an old, old Cetra blessing, clumsy from formality and poor translation. But she thinks Lucrecia understands, because a small, thin smile pulls at the corner of her mouth.

“I won't, but... thank you.” 

When Ifalna releases her, she strides back until she is nearly at the foot of the staircase. Her eyes are hard to track in the dim light, but Ifalna has no doubt that she is watching them.

Ifalna turns, looking at the heavy wooden door. It's the last barrier to the outside world, and it feels both impossibly flimsy and immovably huge. 

What will they do, outside? Where will they go? Ifalna spent all her life–save these past few years lived as experiment–in tiny Icicle Inn. Aerith has never left the labs. Neither of them have any practical skills, any knowledge of how to live on the run. 

But she has to run. If she stays any longer, she will become just another of Hojo's lifeless experiments, too despondent and too apathetic to even move within her cage. 

She gathers Aerith into her arms and unlatches the door. The hinges shriek as she opens it, but no alarm sounds. No one comes running to pull them away. 

A cold breeze brushes the hem of her skirts. It's the first she's felt in seven years.

She steps out into the night and doesn't look back.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
